Mysterious Mind
by Lisbeth93
Summary: A long unsolved case is considered once again, 16 years after Sherlock Holmes gave up.
1. Chapter 1

**Sept 2012- I'm really sorry to anyone who waited on an update for this and gave up, I realise it's been far too long since I last posted anything, my only feeble excuse is trying to get into uni, now that that's accomplished please know I shall be devoting regular(ish) time to this and other stories currently in the works. I apologise for the ridiculous wait again. In other news I've edited this story quite a bit, every chapter's been given a face lift, and a new chapter added, please let me know how it reads :) more coming soon I swear**

Chapter 1

"Holmes, I must say, well done old boy, three cases solved in a week! I do believe I've never seen such skill, even from you. That last case especially, secret stitching in the curtains! I'm still astounded, and yet you made it seem so obvious."

"It was obvious Watson, new and very expensive curtains with an uneven hem line? Unthinkable, hence my conclusion." He yawned as he lit his pipe in front of the fire, trying to hide it by turning his back, but I saw quite clearly in the mirror, he was very tired if he did not realise this.

"I think you ought to get some sleep, after some dinner of course-"

Mrs Hudson entered with a tray of tea, trying to set it down on the table but stopped by the veritable avalanche of papers flowing from the cabinet, which seemed to stretch from one corner of the room to another, and earning a rather rueful look from our landlady.

Noticing the distaste in our landlady's face, Holmes turned to try and alleviate some of her brewing ire, "Ah, good evening Mrs Hudson, how I have longed for a cup of your most excellent tea." He said it with smooth charm and a smile as he cleared some room for the tray, she huffed and left, shooting a last glare at our rooms and sharply informing us dinner would be ready in half an hour. I listened to her walking down the stairs and then began hastily tidying, trying to at least clear a pathway through the mess, which Holmes seemed to effortlessly jump over. He sat at the table and watched me over his cup with a slightly amused expression. Normally I would tell him to come and help but after the last week I had some sympathy for him.

It had been tiring for everyone, Mrs Hudson included, dodging an irritable Holmes and guessing when to prepare meals, she even stopped her tidying after an outburst when some papers were removed from inside the plant pot on the landing. I had spent the week avoiding patients, as well as my editor, while trying to keep Holmes alive, and not just through nutrition, the case of the Welsh arsonist proved positively life threatening, while the bank robbery involved some rather trigger-happy villains. The last case of the missing government documents, along with other valuables had at first looked straight forward, almost uninteresting to my friend, but had proved singularly complex towards its conclusion. Our trials were nothing however, compared to the efforts of Holmes in all three cases. He slept barely an hour and consumed some toast and a boiled egg, and then only because I threatened to inform Mycroft.

With some of the mess cleared away and the papers on our armchairs filed neatly in the cabinets, I glanced back at the table, Holmes had set down his cup and his eyes were closed, I smiled and silently drew the blinds, the sun was just beginning to set on that Sunday evening, it was still rather warm, there were no clouds in the sky and the streets were filled with people walking in the fading, late summer light. I turned and sat down opposite my companion, pouring myself some tea. At first glance he looked asleep, his breathing was steady and slow, hands folded in his lap, but his arms slightly limp.

I remembered fondly an instance a few years ago, where I had spent nearly two hours listening to Holmes lecturing me about the importance of determining whether someone was asleep or not. It had been a particularly trying lesson, with him telling me the different breathing patterns, how to tell a fake posture and a bewildering array of snoring noises, all of which all sounded the same. For all that I had forgotten of his teaching that day I did however remember that he had a little habit of twitching his left eye slightly while he faked sleep.

I watched him carefully for a minute, sipping my tea.

"There! Your eye twitched, I have caught you Holmes." I exclaimed, somewhat triumphantly, while he grumbled slightly and sat up straighter.

"Just testing you old man, I am a little tired though." He sighed

"I should think as much" he smiled and closed his eyes again. A couple of minutes passed before we heard Mrs. Hudson coming up the stairs again with our dinner. We ate in comfortable silence, I was just finishing my tea and thinking of retiring early when Holmes lifted his eyes up to me and asked "Do you keep up to date with the latest advancements in mental health?"

I was fairly stunned by this impromptu question, "Well, yes, it is not strictly in my line but a local GP never really knows what to expect." He considered for a moment,

"What do you know of traumas? Specifically the physcological effects?" He wasn't looking at me, just gazing into the near distance, a glazed look in his eye.

"I don't know a great deal, there are some effects that show later in life, if the trauma happens in childhood, withdrawals from society, etc. Or if the trauma happens later in life the effects are sometimes more severe, persistent nightmares, insomnia, sometimes even insanity. That's only if it's quite severe though." His brow was furrowed, and he was gazing intently into his cup, knowing not to disturb him while he was thinking I fell silent, pondering what his interest in this could be.

"Is this for a case?" I asked, sometime later.

"Yes, you could say that. It's an old problem, I had no evidence at the start, I decided to let it unfold, but it's never left my mind. I thought it had actually resolved itself, but after recent events I'm not so sure..." he stood up and swept across into his bedroom, closing the door behind him before I had any chance to offer some help. I stood and climbed the stairs to my room, deciding he needed some sleep anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

I rose at my normal time the next morning, a little brighter for the much needed sleep; I only hoped that Holmes had managed to get some sleep too.

I was not surprised that he did not emerge for breakfast; I lit a cigarette and opened the newspaper, reading about our latest adventure, with certain changes made as to the relevant Inspector's contribution to the solution, of which I shall say no more. It was nearly 11 o'clock when Holmes wandered out in his dressing gown, hair thoroughly ruffled, and slumped down in his chair opposite me.

"Mrs Hudson's bringing up some late breakfast for you soon. How are you feeling?" I was quite concerned, he needed to rest for a few days, but how could I know when his black mood would take over? After every case it's a guessing game, too much rest and relaxation will send him into a spiral of depression, yet another case too soon could break even his iron will.

"I think some tea and a cigarette would be a reasonable cure for my lethargy." Soon the air above him was filled with wisps of smoke, he sat there, upright with his eyes closed, like he was meditating, the only movement was when he drew from the cigarette and blew a smoke ring, which wandered lazily towards the ceiling and dissipated into a faint cloud.

The silence was interrupted by our landlady bringing in some breakfast for Holmes, with a slight glance at my attempts to tidy the previous night she handed me a telegram and departed. Holmes was now eating properly, so I turned my attention to the missive. It was from an old friend of mine, from medical school, wishing to meet me at my club, stating that he has recently moved back to England after retiring from practice in America. I was anxious to meet him again and hear of his life since I last saw him, and no doubt he felt the same way. I left Holmes finishing his breakfast, with instructions to eat lunch and perhaps take a nap, to which he replied "Yes, _doctor_." Smiling, I told him not to wait up and left.

I returned later that day to find Holmes was asleep on the couch, the lamps had already been lit and as it was a slightly colder day the fire was lit too. I covered him with a light blanket and sat at my desk to write. Half an hour passed before he stirred and looked round at me, his hair, if possible, more unruly than before.

"How was your day then?" I asked cautiously,

"Routine, commonplace, dull. How is your medico friend?" I smiled despite myself, watching him slump into his armchair,

"You read the telegram then? He is well, three children in fact. He was quite surprised to learn I had been in Afghanistan, he left before I'd even decided you see. He was even more surprised to learn I was the same Dr Watson who wrote the stories in the Strand."

Holmes was regarding me quite carefully from his seat by the fire; his expression was something like apprehension, a rare thing to see on the face of Sherlock Holmes.

"Something troubling you Holmes?" I said, setting down my pen.

"Watson, have you ever needed to talk about something, quite as a necessity, but were held back by the fact that the subject was... well, sensitive?" he was watching me intently; it was quite unnerving to say the least.

"It happens quite often with patients, but as you say, if the subject must be discussed then there are no other options." He continued to watch me, like he was studying my face. "Does this have anything to do with the case you talked of last night?"

"Yes, I'm afraid it does, I believe the issues surrounding it were merely oppressed, not solved and as a consequence may culminate in an outburst, which I should dearly like to avoid. Especially since it involves you, my dear Watson." I was silent for a moment,

"Excuse me?" This was quite unprecedented, yet he looked so sincere,

"Watson, when we first met you were still recovering from your campaign in Afghanistan, I didn't see much of you those first few weeks, I will admit I was a little wary of you. I have said before that I have no friends other than you, and I fully expected you to find me intolerable at first, perhaps even move out. You didn't however, on the contrary you proved quite useful in the Jefferson Hope case and after that I found myself, dare I say it, rather fond of you." He stood and began pacing, hands behind his back, chin resting on his chest, as though this were some case he was thinking over.

I was extremely confused as to where this could possibly be going but continued watching him pace,

"Even so, I did not know you that well and so I couldn't broach the subject, a subject I felt you would be particularly guarded over." He glanced at me, seeing my questioning face he continued, "The subject of Afghanistan, what you experienced and how it affected you. Not just physically but..."

"Holmes what are you driving at?" I said somewhat sharply, I could feel my heart beating faster already, my chest tightening with the knowledge of what he was about to ask me.

"Do you still dream of the War?"

I got up from my seat abruptly, "I'm not discussing it." I nearly shouted it at him.

"Watson, look at me." I stopped, despite myself, halfway to the door; I didn't turn around, just waited, my shoulders tense. He said nothing, sighing I turned around; so many years of obeying his every command had created this habit now. I couldn't look at him; I just stared awkwardly at the carpet.

"You can't deny you suffered from nightmares in the early stages of our relationship. Of course, it was obvious where they stemmed from, but it still took me a while to come to terms with it, I had no knowledge of war, what Maiwand was like, what any of it was like.

"I didn't know how to help; it started as a theory, playing the violin at night. It had some measurable effect but that could easily be contributed to you settling into civilian life, I had no idea how severe the nightmares were, but after some time they seemed to subside, at least, you didn't cry out any more." he stammered out the last few words, this was unsettling for the both of us.

I couldn't look at him, it had been one of my greatest fears, and sources of embarrassment in those early days, that he should hear my distress, I thought it likely since he kept such odd hours. My hands gripped the back of the armchair, and I stared resolutely at his shoes, "I'm sorry if I disturbed you. I..." speech failed me; I closed my eyes, trying to hold back the fear brewing in my chest.

"Watson, you should not feel ashamed," he spoke in that stern voice he often used with delusional clients "my dear fellow, never feel ashamed. I can't believe it's taken me so long to say this, please, don't ever feel humiliated or weak or unworthy. Do you hear?" he spoke firmly, I looked up, he was watching me, waiting for an answer.

"Why are you bringing this up Holmes? What has prompted all of this?" My leg was aching, I ignored it.

"I thought the dreams had stopped, I thought you had ceased thinking about the war. But then, on the arsonist case, we spent the night in that inn outside Llangollen? I have seldom seen you that... out of sorts. I didn't have my violin of course, and I don't think you really remember any of that night do you?" I slumped heavily in my chair, my head in my hands, I heard Holmes sit down opposite me. "Suffice to say it is now clear to me that your memories of the war are still vivid, and still trouble you, am I correct?"

I looked at him levelly, "It doesn't make for pleasant conversation."

"I expect it doesn't, but when do I ever engage in pleasant conversation?" I smiled grimly; he got up and poured us both a glass of brandy "You have often impressed on me the importance of getting something off your chest. Believe me when I say I am concerned for you, Watson, I want to help, it's the least I can do, after all this time."

"This was your case, the unsolved mystery? You've been studying me from the beginning?" the brandy went untouched, clenched in my hand. His eyes widened,

"My interest was only ever born out of concern for you Watson, I wanted to help. The true solution however always remained out of my reach, but now I cannot let it rest, believe me Watson, this is only out of concern for you. I think you need to tell me why you have these nightmares."

He watched me consider for a moment, uncertainty reflected in my face, he always could read me like a book. "Alright Holmes, I'll tell you everything that happened to me.


	3. Chapter 3

ok, so i'm really drunk, which is the only reason i've worked up the courage to post this, which is a totally updated version of the previous, i promise more shall be uploaded soon, i understand if you get fed up with this story its awful i know, and andrew if youre reading this then you are absolutely sworn to secrecy :p xx

I took a sip from my brandy, desperate to calm my nerves. Where to start? It was so long ago now, I had lived a lifetime since then. And yet somehow, it was all so cruelly vivid in my mind.

"My life as a young child was quite happy, I was well cared for. My mother died just before I began medical school, it was the first tragedy I had experience of. My father had always been a distant figure, and after mother passed away he became even more silent towards me, and especially towards Harold. When I joined medical school and moved to London, communication between us stopped completely. Harry moved to Edinburgh, he found a position in the old family business there I think.

"And so I found myself rather alone. I was not too bothered by it; I made friends, and focused on my studies. In early 1878 I returned home for a short break, I was starting to think about moving in to general practice soon, my course was very nearly over. One evening I found my father talking with an old friend of his, he was introduced as Lt. Colonel Wade, he was about as talkative as my father and with a much sterner face, but did take interest in my ambitions, 'Doctors,' he announced, as if to an audience, 'are in short supply in the army these days, we need good, upstanding young men, like yourself to support her majesty's troops.' With that I was dismissed and so I went for a walk around the gardens.

I was fairly taken with the prospect of the army, I had always enjoyed adventure, I remembered learning to ride horseback in the Australian gold fields as a young boy, desperate to explore where I could. In the years since I had longed to see more of the world and to perhaps try my hand at literature, even as a young man I had enjoyed writing, always scribbling away in various notebooks. And as I kept walking the words of Henry Thoreau came back to me, 'How vain it is to sit down to write, when you have not stood up to live.' That fairly made up my mind. I finished my studies, signed up and by November I was being dispatched to Bombay.

"It was obvious by now that we would have to move to Kandahar as soon as we alighted, but when we landed in India the British effort was looking quite positive, we joined the march through the passes towards Afghanistan, the entire army of three thousand men marching in front of us. It felt as though we had already won."

I paused for a moment, scenes flashing before my eyes, sweltering heat, pack horses being led away through the dusty air and the occasional curious child, peering round a corner to look at the hustle and bustle.

"In a Study in Scarlet, I mentioned the Jezail wound only, in truth that was only the culmination of nearly two years of misfortune and disaster. Things began to go wrong almost immediately, we were advancing through the countries cavernous passes, bringing up the rear. The valley region of Afghanistan is vast, like Cumbria but infinitely more steep, rugged and imposing. We had been told to be wary of ambushes, it would have been easy enough for them, there were countless caves and ridges, and we were open to attack on all sides.

"About a week into the march they attacked us, just as we were approaching the Khyber Pass, at least two hundred men suddenly appeared, as if from nowhere, surrounding the entire convoy, we had more men and weapons, but it soon became clear that they didn't care. They opened fire from their vantage point and we all ran for what cover there was, there were maybe ten injuries, none of them fatal. I hurried to try and help as best I could, that was when I saw my first Jezail bullet wound, a soldier, little older that myself, it had grazed his thigh, it wasn't life threatening, but damn painful. Every ghazi that had charged us was now dead, and I was just thinking we'd had a lucky escape when I heard a galloping in the distance and then one of the orderlies came rushing up to us, he said two of our men had been knocked unconscious and carried off by two of the Arab women, who had sneaked up behind during the commotion. I ran to where he pointed and saw their horses disappearing into the distance, their ominous black robes billowing around them.

"When we regrouped a search party was organised, it was agreed that I should go, as it was probable they would need medical attention. We set out on our horses, scrutinising every hollow, every turn for some sign of our comrades. The light soon began to fade and we began to debate whether to turn back, when we heard a scream, a horrible, breathtaking cry of agony, which was cut short as suddenly as it came. We stood, stunned in the half darkness, the rocky cliffs echoing the noise back at us. Then, fury taking over us we charged towards the sound, a few moments later the leading man saw the faint light at the mouth of a cave. We dismounted and advanced quickly. Even then I didn't feel scared, this was still an adventure to me, we were going to return as heroes.

"What I saw in that cave shattered everything. As we walked into the cave there was a trail of bloody, torn bits of uniform, making a grim path towards the two men, lying still on the ground before us, their hands tied, their feet bound. They hadn't been gagged but their mouths were hanging open, like they were still screaming. The two women standing over them rushed at us, they were shot and swept aside. I knelt down beside the two men; they were dead, beyond any help. Their faces still haunt me, their mouths stretched open in a silent scream, their faces contorted in pain, and the eyes were the worst, staring glassily up at the ceiling, the last thing they ever saw.

"That was the first time I truly understood what I had gotten myself into. Here were two strong young men, beaten savagely, their legs mangled and their torsos slashed; they had died in agony, on the floor in a dark little cave, not in battle, no heroics, no honour. For a few seconds I was overwhelmed, then I began to examine them more closely, the wounds were significant, yet not enough to cause death, perhaps they had been beaten around the head? As I looked more closely I noticed a large amount of water in each of their mouths, then I saw the sticks lying beside their heads and my stomach twisted in horror and disgust, they had been drowned. The sticks used to hold their mouths open, and so they couldn't swallow while water was poured into their mouths, and straight into their lungs, I had heard rumours of the practice being used in this area but never dreamed I would come into contact with it. The pain must have been unbearable, I felt numb, it was inhuman, and to my young mind such a thing seemed so cruel as to be impossible. As we rode back with the bodies I began to shake, all over, my mind was reeling from the shock, and on that silent ride back I suddenly felt the loneliness of our situation, we were helpless, without any real justice.

This became even clearer to be when we reached camp, our CO cane rushing up to us, his face set, and a grim look in his eyes, we stood to attention,

'Right boys, these poor fellows have to be disposed of quickly and properly, captain Johnson, private Wilson, with me, the rest of you, back to camp. Now listen lads, all of you, this never happened alright? As of now these two are officially missing in action, and _no one _speaks of this again or there'll be a court martial, do you hear?'

'Yes sir.' We saluted and began walking to try and find our bunks; I met up with the Fusiliers for the first time and was properly introduced, then shown to my tent. I lay awake in my bunk for hours that night, looking at the beige canvas above me, I couldn't fall asleep, even close my eyes. It felt as though I was reliving the shock, over and over again inside my head, I wake up with the same feeling sometimes, and I've never once spoken of that night since, not in 16 years."


End file.
